We drifted along at half a knot
fishing overboard with a dead man's lures.
You can't catch anything at half a knot, he said.
I didn't know if this was true.
It didn't matter.
I watched him unwrap lures from their store packaging,
new lures last picked out by the dead man.
It felt as though there should be meaning here,
a place for the needle to skip
or a bookmark to be placed,
for the universe to record this spot in the story,
but nothing happened.
The lures were unwrapped, attached to the lines,
down into the water
where they dragged behind the boat
while nobody watched.